One Man's Flag

ONE MAN’S FLAG Books by David Downing The John Russell series Zoo Station Silesian Station Stettin Station Potsdam Station Lehrter Station Masaryk Station The Jack McColl series Jack of Spies Other titles The Red Eagles ONE MAN’S FLAG DAVID DOWNING Copyright © 2015 by David Downing All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Soho Press, Inc. 853 Broadway New York, NY 10003 Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Downing, David, 1946– One man’s flag / David Downing. (A Jack McColl novel ; 2) 1. Intelligence officers—Great Britain—Fiction. 2. Women journalists—Great Britain—Fiction. 3. World War, 1914-1918—Ireland—Fiction. 4. Ireland—History—1910-1921—Fiction. I. Title. PR6054.O868O54 2015 823’.914—dc23 2015014946 ISBN 978-1-61695-270-9 eISBN 978-1-61695-271-6 Interior design by Janine Agro, Soho Press, Inc. Printed in the United States of America 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 This book is dedicated to my grandfather, Gerald Percy Constantine, who served in India during the Great War and many years later introduced me to the joy of making up stories. If you insist upon fighting to protect me, or “our” country, let it be understood, soberly and rationally between us, that . as a woman, I have no country. As a woman I want no country. As a woman my country is the whole world. —Virginia Woolf ONE MAN’S FLAG Historical Note The Britain that went to war in 1914 was more than an island state on the edge of Europe. The British Empire also included largely self-governing dominions, colonies ruled by London’s appointees, and, in the case of Ireland, another island nation long subsumed by its larger neighbor. When war broke out, the white-settler-ruled dominions— Canada, Australia, New Zealand, and South Africa—took it for granted that Britain’s fight was theirs and sent soldiers across the world to play their part in the motherland’s struggle. But it was different for those living under direct British rule, who were given less choice in the matter and who had less stake in the outcome. In many such places—India and Ireland foremost among them—resentment of British rule was already growing at a rapid pace, and those demanding greater autonomy were bound to see the empire’s moment of peril as their moment of opportunity. In India the movement for self-rule was led by the Congress Party, most of whose leaders, including Mohandas Gandhi, were prepared to accepted the British argument that change would have to wait until after the war. But there were also powerful groups in both Punjab and Bengal that refused to wait and XII $ DAV I D DOWNING instead set about mounting campaigns of violence against Brit- ish rule. The situation in Ireland was similar. The long campaign for Home Rule—a roughly analogous status to that enjoyed by the white dominions—had finally been won in 1914, only to be post- poned when war broke out. This was accepted by many but failed to satisfy those demanding full independence. And here, as in India, there were many who believed that the wait had already been too long. As always, an enemy’s enemy might prove a useful friend. Even before the war, both Irish and Indian groups had reached out to the Germans, and once the fighting was under way, these contacts were pursued with increasing vigor. A German Who Could Pass for an Englishman High on Darjeeling’s Observatory Hill, Jack McColl stared out at the snow-draped Himalayas. The view was as magnificent as everyone in Calcutta had told him it would be, so he sat there on the British-manufactured wrought-iron bench and tried to take it in. And all he could see was the glow in Caitlin Hanley’s eyes as their train snaked through the snow-clad Rockies. A year had passed since then. Eight months since the day she’d stormed out of his London flat, leaving him feeling like the ultimate fool. Eight months of war and worrying about his brother. Eight months of waiting for Caitlin’s brother to meet his executioners. Eight months of wishing he hadn’t betrayed her. He sighed and looked at his watch. It was time he went to arrange his meeting with the German internee. When war broke out the previous August, Jürgen Rehmer had been a high-ranking employee of the North German Lloyd shipping company, with a plush office on Calcutta’s Dalhousie Square, a beautiful villa overlooking the Maidan, and many close friends among the British community. Then the news of hostili- ties had reached India and armed police had appeared at his door. Within a matter of hours, he and his wife were on their way 2 $ DAV I D DOWNING to the hastily established internment camp at Katapahar, a few miles south of Darjeeling. They’d been there ever since. McColl took the path back to Chaurasta Square, making sure to scan the bushes on either side. He wasn’t expecting an attack, but such caution had become second nature in Calcutta after so many terrorist incidents. Darjeeling was probably safe, although these days you never knew, and he no longer went anywhere without his Webley revolver. The police station was on Auckland Road, not far below the square. He was escorted through to the local commissioner’s office, where a fellow Scot named Gilzean was already waiting for him. A strong whiff of whiskey accompanied the handshake. McColl took the proffered seat and looked around. The office was almost as sparse as his hotel room. A map of the district adorned one wall, but the others were bare, and the highly pol- ished desk boasted only a single pen, a wooden tray containing a small sheaf of papers, and a framed photograph of several men standing over a dead tiger. “The camp’s about five miles south of here,” Gilzean told him. “I assume you’ll be wanting to see your man tomorrow morning?” “That sounds good. How do I get there?” “I’ll have one of our chaps take you down in a tonga. We try not to use our automobile unless we have to—the roads are a nightmare. He’ll pick you up at nine, all right? And I’ll tele- phone the camp and let them know you’re coming.” “Have you met Rehmer?” “Aye, once. A decent chap for a Hun, but then I suppose most of them are. It’s a pity the ones that aren’t seem to be in charge.” “Yes.” Since there seemed nothing more to say, McColl got back to his feet. Gilzean wasn’t done. “So what do you want with the man?” he asked. There was no obvious reason not to tell him. “Some infor- mation about someone else. Back in August, when he was questioned in Calcutta, he mentioned a name that has come up ONE MAN ’ S FLAG $ 3 several times in connection with gunrunning. He was questioned again in January—” “I know. He refused to say anything. What makes you think he’ll change his mind?” “His wife’s ill.” “Ah.” Gilzean’s initial reaction was a look of disgust, but he managed to shrug it away. “We are at war,” he said, as much to himself as McColl. “We are indeed,” McColl agreed. And where would they be without that comforting mantra? he wondered, walking back up the hill toward his hotel. To his ears at least, it sounded a tad more hollow with each passing Indian day. When he woke up the following morning, the mountains had disappeared behind a curtain of mist. Over breakfast he went over what he knew about Rehmer, which wasn’t very much. The German had been good at his job, an affable dinner guest, better than average on the polo field. Two British neighbors had spoken out against his arrest but had quickly withdrawn their protests when news of the German behavior in Belgium had reached Calcutta. With a British victory now clearly essential at any price, locking up a few relative innocents for a few months seemed a small one to pay. There were those like McColl’s recently acquired friend Cynthia Malone who argued that there seemed little point fighting the Hun if you sank to his level, but such dissenting voices were few and far between. McColl had had no pat answer for them, other than a vague but strong sense that a victory for German militarism would be worse for the world than would a victory for Germany’s opponents. And there was always the highly salient fact that the Germans were actively seek- ing to kill his brother, Jed, his old friend “Mac” McAllister, and their several hundred thousand comrades manning the trenches in France. Which was why he was doing unpleasant jobs like this one, McColl reminded himself. Sometimes that seemed reason enough. Sometimes it didn’t. 4 $ DAV I D DOWNING Emerging from the hotel entrance at nine o’clock, he found his transport ready and waiting. The driver, a young Bengali policeman, introduced himself as Salil and the pony as Kipling. “And how are you discovering Darjeeling?” the Indian asked in English once the tonga was moving. “I like it,” McColl answered, although as yet he’d seen pre- cious little of the town. After leaving Gilzean the previous afternoon, he’d considered dining at the Darjeeling Club—the Calcutta Department of Criminal Intelligence chief had prom- ised to get his name put down as a guest—but knowing the sort of people he’d encounter and what range of opinions would be slid, tipped, or shoved down his throat, he’d decided to eat at his hotel instead.

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